


Continuo

by Nestra



Series: Counterpoint [3]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, sga_flashfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-17
Updated: 2006-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:54:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nestra/pseuds/Nestra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A set of chords continuously underlying the melody in a piece of baroque music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Continuo

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the sga_flashfic "Song and Dance" challenge. Speranza asked for this one, although I'm afraid it's not quite tourfic. Maybe for the next challenge. Thanks to shrift and grit kitty for beta (and alpha).

"Hey, sorry, but I'm not going to be able to make it. I've got a family thing that came up."

Rodney stopped walking and leaned against the wall next to the concert hall's door, phone to his ear. "A family thing?"

"Yeah, it's no big deal, but I've got to go take care of it, sign some paperwork." John's voice fuzzed out momentarily in a burst of static. "...back home in a couple of days."

"Okay," Rodney said, because he didn't have time for "I thought your father was dead and your mother hated you" two minutes before he went on stage to teach a master class. Next to him, Zelenka made an inquiring face; Rodney rolled his eyes and turned his back on him.

"Everything going okay there?" John asked.

"Yeah, it's fine. Of course, Zelenka and I are the only ones with any sort of real talent, so I've had to sit through three seminars given by people I wouldn't trust to compose commercial jingles."

"About what you expected, then."

"Yeah." He hesitated, and it was almost like John was waiting for him to say something else.

"I've got to go," John said. "I'll probably be home before you will. Have a good trip."

"Okay," Rodney said. "Um, you too." He stared at the phone for a second before thumbing it off. That had been a weirdly uninformative conversation even for John, who seemed to think that saying "I'm going out" as he shut the front door was enough detail to satisfy Rodney.

Zelenka appeared in front of him. "Problem?"

"No. My partner was supposed to fly in tomorrow for the concert, but he can't make it." Rodney pulled open the door and headed up the aisle towards the steps to the stage. He noted with gratification that the room was almost completely full, not that he'd expected anything else. If an idiot like Lattimore could get two hundred people to listen to her talk about new frontiers in chamber music, then his class ought to be standing room only.

"The famous John Sheppard? I wanted to meet him."

"I haven't talked about him that much."

"No, only when you stopped talking about yourself." Zelenka settled into a reserved seat in the second row.

"I'm sorry that your loveless life has made you bitter and petty," Rodney snapped, but Zelenka's grin told Rodney that he'd spent the last three days being hideously obvious about John.

The dean of the music school tapped Rodney on the arm. "We're ready to start."

Rodney climbed the stairs to the stage and waited for the rumble of talk to die down. "I am Dr. McKay, obviously, and welcome to the one event scheduled this week that might actually teach you something."

He saw the dean, now sitting next to Zelenka, paste a smile on his face as everyone in the vicinity turned to look at him. If John had been there, he'd have said something placating to the dean, something like, "don't worry, he's always grumpy before lunch," ensuring that Rodney might possibly be invited back in the future. But John wasn't there. He was back at home, supposedly packing a suitcase for a visit to the family who considered him a disgrace.

***

His alma mater's music school was having a week of classes and events led by distinguished alumni, which Rodney mentally translated as "desperate plea for donations from rich people." The week culminated in the concert and reception that John was supposed to fly in for.

Rodney hadn't even wanted to come, but John had encouraged him. "Look, that asshole who told you that you didn't have any talent -- he's gone, right?"

"Retired," Rodney said. "Not dead. Sadly."

John swatted at his arm as he walked over to the filing cabinet. "Quit wishing people dead. It's bad for you."

"It has been a while since I've seen Radek," Rodney admitted. "He's been writing some interesting stuff, incorporating Czech folk music. Hardly original, of course, but still better than most of the crap that gets commissioned by major orchestras these days." He saved and closed his project, then started shutting down the machine. Time for dinner.

"You'll come, won't you?" he asked as they headed into the kitchen. After a few of Rodney's hypoglycemic attacks, John had learned that Rodney didn't joke around about mealtimes.

"You want leftover chicken?" John tossed the tupperware container on the counter and started running water for rice. "When is it?"

"Next month. The tenth through the fifteenth."

John shook his head. "I have the meeting with your publishers on the fourteenth."

"Shit, that's right," Rodney said, pushing books and papers to the back of the table. "So come up for the rest of it. The final concert is on the fifteenth, and then there's a stupid reception I'll have to go to."

"You want me to come to a reception full of musicians and professors? Can't you find someone else to stand next to you and look bored?"

Rodney huffed. "You always look bored. It won't be much of a change."

John sat down next to Rodney in one of the mismatched chairs at the small kitchen table. They tended to eat in the kitchen whenever Rodney was working on a composition, since the dining room table was quickly lost to music scores and Rodney's scribbled notes. "You really want me to come?"

"No, I've just wasted ten minutes in a circular conversation because I have nothing better to do."

John bumped his knee into Rodney's under the table. "Only if you admit that the reason you want me to come is so you have an audience for your triumphant return to your college."

"You admit that you aren't actually bored by technical discussions of music."

"You still owe me a plane."

"I haven't forgotten," Rodney said. He sometimes thought that John didn't believe him about the plane, maybe because Rodney was careful to hide the catalogs. One year, though, John was going to get a hell of a birthday present.

"The water's ready," John said, but he leaned over and kissed Rodney before he stood up, and that meant yes.

***

"Well, that sucked," Rodney said as he walked off stage.

"It was fine." Zelenka, who'd been on the first half of the program, was sitting backstage on one of the couches, reading a cycling magazine.

"By your standards, maybe, but any self-respecting artist has to be able to judge a performance objectively. And I sucked."

Zelenka looked up, lips pursed. "The performance was a little shaky, perhaps. But the composition...your music was always good, Rodney; you don't need me to tell you that. But now it is accessible. Not simple," he said, as Rodney began to protest. "Accessible. Open. You allow others to love it as you love it, and that is no small thing." Zelenka shooed him away with a few flutters of his hand. "Go take your bow."

"You know, I'd forgotten how irritating you are in person," Rodney said, moving closer to the stage, trying to gauge the level of applause. "Uh, your piece was good too."

Zelenka flipped another page of his magazine. "Yes, I know."

Rodney took another bow and then headed to his dressing room. The last piece on the program was a performance of the 1812 Overture by the undergraduate orchestra, and he didn't feel any need to listen to that for the thousandth time.

He stepped into his tiny box of a dressing room to change into the suit he was wearing to the reception, still unhappy with his performance. He'd played one of his newest piano sonatas, and his performance had been uneven. It hadn't gelled, and he'd spent twelve minutes and three movements slightly on edge, not able to relax into the music.

He'd stashed his hotel room key and cell phone in a convenient drawer, and as he pulled them out to shove in his pockets, he noticed he'd missed a call.

"Hey," John's voice said. "I...um...I'm home. Just wanted to let you know. Everything went fine. Call me from the airport if you get bored, or, um, I'll see you when you get back."

The message sounded mundane, but Rodney could tell from the tone of his voice that something was wrong. That worried Rodney, because John was usually a better liar than that. And it was something John hadn't wanted to bother him with, which meant that he thought it might distract Rodney.

"You were right about that, asshole," Rodney mumbled to himself as he zipped his tuxedo into its garment bag. It wouldn't take him longer than five minutes to pack, and on the cab ride back to the hotel, he could call the airline and get his flight rebooked.

Zelenka knocked on the door right as Rodney opened it. "I'm leaving," Rodney said, squeezing past Zelenka into the hall.

"What about the reception?" Zelenka followed him past the security desk and out the stage door.

"I need to go home. Something's wrong with John."

"He's sick?" Zelenka asked.

"No, I just...look, I'm leaving. Make some excuse for me." Rodney looked up and down the street but didn't see a cab anywhere. "What kind of performance hall doesn't have a cab stand?"

"One on a university campus, Rodney. I will have the security desk call you a taxi."

"Thanks," Rodney said, and then, as Zelenka began to walk away, "It was good to see you, Radek. You should -- should come visit us. I think you and John would get along well."

"That is a great compliment," Zelenka said gravely. They shook hands. "You do actually have a spare bedroom, yes?"

"Go call my cab," Rodney said, turning back to stare at the street and construct a list of every potential disaster he could imagine.

***

Rodney dumped his suitcase by the front door. To his right, he saw John on the living room couch, flipping channels in the dark.

John looked over and frowned. "What are you doing home?"

"I freaked out when the cab pulled up and the house was dark, and then I remembered that it was one in the morning and that I've spent the past several hours getting here because you don't have the brains to tell me what's actually going on in your life."

John sighed and switched off the TV. "My mother had a stroke."

"God," Rodney said, the couch sinking under him as he dropped down next to John. "I thought my publishers had told you they were dropping me, or you were cheating on me. I didn't think it was actually a family thing."

"My aunt called. I sent Mom a card when I moved in here, just with the address and phone number. I don't know why. She hasn't talked to me in five years."

Rodney put a hand on the back of John's neck, which was tight with tension. "Is she okay?"

"I don't know. I got there, and she was barely awake." John took a deep breath with a hitch in the middle of it. "Her right side is partially paralyzed, but she still managed to tell me to get out."

"Fuck her," Rodney snapped, so angry that he felt sick. "You don't need her. You've got me," and that was the worst kind of bullshit, because no matter how much anyone loved you, it still hurt to be rejected by your family, the people who were supposedly obligated to love you. But John repeated after him, "Yeah, I've got you," and he sounded kind of glad about that, so maybe it'd been the right thing to say.

John let his head drop down under the hand on his neck, and the dejection was so clear that Rodney had to keep talking. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't realize something was going on, but how was I supposed to know if you didn't tell me?"

"I guess I have to tell you everything in self-defense," John mumbled into his chest. "You thought I was cheating on you?"

"You weren't talking to me!"

John turned his head enough to fix a sideways glare on Rodney. "If I cheated on you you'd probably write an opera about how much you hated me."

"Please," Rodney said. "I hate opera." He let his hand slide down to rub John's back a couple of times, and John sighed again, but this time without the hitch.

"How was the concert?"

"It was fine."

"Fine?" John repeated skeptically. "Not 'a clear demonstration of how far my talent outstrips that of any of those other amateurs'?"

Rodney shrugged. "Of course, but...I would have played better if you'd been there."

"So play it for me now," John murmured.

They walked together through the dark hall into the office and sat down at the piano. Rodney snapped on the small light over the piano, and John leaned against him while he played, each note perfect, each key solid under his touch.


End file.
